The Function of Wisdom
by Brownish
Summary: Bellatrix is driven out of the Death Eaters after the Department of Mysteries, and seeks shelter with the Order. Will this experience show her the error of her ways? No, not really. A slow, twisted Harry/Bella story.
1. Shifts of Fortune

Bellatrix Lestrange stared at the hem of her master's robes, panting with the aftermath of the Cruciatus. It was no matter, it was just, it was fair - she had failed him, _failed the Dark Lord_, and she knew she must be punished. She shuddered as phantom needles swept across her body, the aftershocks painful but nowhere near the soul-destroying agony of her Lord's Cruciatus. She would endure. He would punish her, but she was his most faithful servant - he would forgive her. She waited patiently, feeling her Lord's gaze heavy upon her as she knelt before him.

He spoke, the high, commanding voice icy with disdain. Bella shivered under the weight of her Lord's disapproval.

"You failed, Bellatrix." She saw the robes swirl as her Lord paced back and forth. "A ragtag band of puling _children_," he hissed, "And my battle-hardened Death Eaters could not overcome them."

"Please, my Lord," she begged, desperate for some way to deflect his terrible anger. "It was Malfoy, it was Lucius who dealt with Potter-"

"And later, Bella?" Her Lord cut her off, voice sharp with contempt. "In the atrium? You could not subdue Potter, a schoolchild snivelling over the death of his faithful _hound_?" Bella quivered with fear and shame. She had failed her Lord so terribly! A tiny corner of her mind whispered treacherous thoughts, about how many times Potter had escaped her Lord, but she drove it away. It was not her place to question her Lord, not in the smallest thing.

"No, Bellatrix, you were useless," her Lord continued, now affecting a conversational tone that she knew hid a growing rage. "You could not defeat even the least of my enemies, a half-blood sick with grief and impotent rage. He had you, Bella! If you cannot best Potter," he spat the name out as if it befouled his thin lips, "Then you are worthless. No more skill than a mudblood, not ready to be sent against the most worthless of Muggles. _Crucio_!" She writhed in agony, the pain crashing over he in waves that fell only to rise once more, every nerve alight with a fire that burnt and chilled and stabbed. Eventually the pain subsided, and Bella found herself surprisingly still upright on her knees, swaying as sparks shot across her vision and her muscles spasmed wildly. Again the tiny voice whispered in defiance, but Bella quashed it under her loyalty, sworn years ago and set by the chill of Azkaban. She was her Lord's, body and soul. She threw herself forward onto her hands, reaching out blindly for her Lord's robes.

"Please, my Lord, grant me another chance. I am your most faithful servant, I shall not fail again. My Lord, please!" Her voice had risen to a shirek that echoed around the room, and she thought she saw other servants shifting, but she did not care. She cared only for her Lord, and she stretched out her hand once more, questing for his robes; a touch as a sign of his favour. "Please, my Lord," she whispered brokenly. "Please."

Her hand found nothing. Bella tilted her face upwards just enough to see that her Lord had taken a step backwards. His voice came again, firm with decision and an anticipation she did not fully understand.

"No." Bella did not understand, could not understand what her Lord was saying. "No more failures, Bella. You have always been loyal, but I must also have _competence!_" On the last word his voice rose to a ringing shout, then dropped away to an icy whisper. "And you have shown me none of that. Enough failures from you, enough and too much. Lord Voldemort does not suffer the worthless, Bellatrix. Not to serve. Not to _live_." She could not grasp what he was saying.

"Please, my Lord, give me a task - something, anything! Let me prove myself anew!" Her voice was a despairing keen, and tears wet her face unnoticed as she begged for mercy from the Lord she loved more than life. He ignored her, speaking over her to his assembled servants, standing near the back of the stone chamber in a black-robed mass.

"Hear me, my faithful ones." She was the faithful one, Bella thought furiously, but did not say it. "My favour falls upon the strong, the skilled, the triumphant. I have no use for the weak. See the reward for failure, and remember - success is everything." Bella felt a great emptiness inside her. Her Lord thought she was weak! When this punishment was complete, she would prove him wrong. With her Lord showing himself in the Ministry, there was no longer a need for secrecy - when he released her to hunt, Bella would remind the mudbloods and the weaklings to fear the Dark Lord's name.

Her Lord was speaking again.

"Severus." There was the rustling sound of a man bowing, and then Bella heard the sneering voice of her Lord's odious brewer and spy.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Bellatrix has served me long and well, before this night." Yes, Bella exulted, yes she had! "She has earnt a quick death. Give it to her." Bella could not believe her ears. Her Lord had condemned her to death? No, it must be a test of loyalty - he often used those, though never with her before. She rose to her knees and dared to look at her Lord's face, peering through a veil of matted hair. Her Lord was not quietly unreadable as he was during tests, he was wearing the tiny smile with which he watched punishments. Executions. Bella heard Snape's voice again, through a haze of disbelief.

"My Lord?" Snape said quietly, and Bella thought hysterically that it was the first time she had heard him sound unsettled.

"My instructions are simple, Severus," her Lord said silkily. "You have killed before, have you not?"

"Yes, my Lord. Of course." Bella stared at the amused countenance of her Lord, the man she held as more than a man and had sworn to follow unto death. Now he had denigrated her service, called her worthless, and he was sending her into death.

She turned away from her Lord, unable to bear the uncaring smile, and turned to Snape. The half-blood was walking from the front rank of the servants towards her, moving slowly as he carefully drew out his wand. He seemed to take forever to walk only a dozen steps, and Bella's minds raced with shock and humiliation. Her Lord called her worthless? She had served him loyally since she took his Mark! Who had tracked and ambushed the Prewett brothers, who had sabotaged the Floo and diverted countless Aurors away from raids, who had taken revenge for her Lord's fall and never repudiated him, not even in the stark cold of Azkaban? Her, her, all her! And now he mocked her? He sent her to the grave with a few haughty words, dispatched by a mangy traitor half-blood with some skill at brewing? Bella's shock bloomed into anger, the first time she had ever been angry at her Lord. Her service had come to this?

Snape came to a halt close to her, not even a pace away, and Bella's mind was full of a sudden fury as she glared up at his emotionless face. She would not be killed by a worthless half-blood! She would not lay down and die on command! If her Lord valued her loyalty so little, then so be it! She tensed her muscles under her robes, preparing to lunge. Something passed across Snape's face as he raised his wand, a twitch of muscle that anyone further away would not have seen. Bella held her breath. Did he know what she was about to do?

"_Avada_," Snape began, and his wandtip glowed sickly green as he went on to the next word, steady as a chant. Before he could finish the incantation that she knew so well, Bella exploded upwards from her kneeling position, twisting Snape's wand around and loosing a flash of verdant lightning into the assembled Death Eaters; they threw themselves away from it with shouted curses. In the same movement she slammed her other hand, balled into a fist, into Snape's wrist. His grip popped open, and she snatched away his wand. A silent blasting hex threw Snape away from her, and she would have cast again save for the voice of her Lord.

"Bellatrix," he rasped, the smooth voice now rough with rage. "Accept my--"

It was too much, the anger of the Lord that had betrayed her, and Bella threw a curse at her Lord. It was a nasty thing, complex and many-layered, and though her Lord brushed it aside with a flick of his wand the crackling _thrumm_ of the block knocked him back a step. There was a moment of total silence in the chamber, none more shocked at her attack than Bella herself. She had attacked her Lord, she was forsworm - but he had broken loyalty first, had he not? He had offered her up for execution! He was no worthy master! As Snape came at her with a knife gleaming in his hand, as her mind trembled under the weight of this decision, Bella apparated away to the only place that could offer her sanctuary now.

*

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had lived for more than a century and a half, but he had never felt as old as he now did. The war that he had known was inevitable had arrived, and by luck and a boy's foolhardy ingenuity it had begun on the best possible terms. Tom had revealed himself to the Ministry, his most influential lieutenant had been captured, and Tom had no more knowledge of the prophecy than before. But the war had been triggered by a night gone horribly wrong, and Albus' new advantage in the conflict was ashes in his mouth. Sirius Black was dead, a reckless young man who had been savaged by the world he fought to protect. Sirius had died for nothing, and young Harry had lost another part of his family. And it was Albus' fault.

He had sought to spare Harry from the reality of the boy's fate - Albus still kept back the worst of his suspicions - and it had led to ruin. Another life torn apart by Albus Dumbledore's monumental arrogance, throwing the weight of his knowledge and skill against the wheel of Fate and then weeping when it rolled on regardless. Albus let out a long, slow breath, and watched the infant Fawkes preening on his perch. Yes. There was still hope. Harry had proven himself to be stronger than any normal child; he would come through the grief, given time. But he would probably never trust Albus again. Probably just as well. He had proven himself untrustworthy tonight. Unable to make the right decisions, unable to teach Harry, unable to protect him or those he loved.

There was a chime, and Albus wrapped himself in Occlumency, flinging away what he knew was a dark and self-destructive mood. The tone of the chime indicated a presence on the periphery of the wards, the three quick tones signalled the main gate. Albus could not imagine Tom making an assault on Hogwarts, not with his forces in disarray and the wards as impenetrable as ever. More likely it was a message from Tom in the form of a dead body, some wizard delivered half-dead or mad. Tom had been fond of such terror tactics in the first war. Albus concentrated, commanding Hogwarts to lift the wards on his office and the front gate, and then he vanished to investigate.

He took in the area with a single glance - the undisturbed gates, the watchful power of the wards, the dark figure crouched in the corner between the outside of the gate and the gatepost. Albus flicked his wand, bathing the area in light, and the crouching figure shot to its feet. Albus raised his wand, a dozen spells crowding his mind as he recognised the figure in a ragged travelling cloak, but waited for a moment for its reaction. The figure held out a hand and spoke.

"Dumbledore," Bellatrix rasped, and Albus blinked at the desperation in the girl's voice. "I have information to offer. Names, properties, account details. I can be useful."

"And what has brought about this sudden change of heart, Bellatrix?" Albus said quietly. He was entirely confused. Bellatrix had no appetite for subterfuge, and Tom's most faithful lieutenant would never abandon her master. The young witch spat on the ground.

"He cast me out," she snarled, voice choked with shock and rage. "He called me worthless. He would have had that _filthy half-blood traitor_ kill me. I, who remained ever faithful! To die at the hands of a snivelling brewer who hid behind Dumbledore's skirts!" Bellatrix paused, tremlbing with emotion, and then seemed to come back to herself. "I could not allow it. He...my lord was not worthy of it. Hide me, Dumbledore, and I will give you all I can."

Albus' mind raced. Tom must have thought Bellatrix's failure in the Ministry inexcusable. If Severus had been assigned as her executioner, he might have let her escape as a distraction for Tom. But now here she was, seeking Albus' protection! He knew it was self-preservation and nothing more, but it was still a stunning reversal for Tom's most faithful servant.

"You will surrender your wand, and your freedom." Bellatrix started at the chill in his voice, but nodded.

"Yes. Hurry! They will trace me!" Albus swept the area before the gate for signs of a trap, but found nothing. No pattern-curses, no young wizards hidden under illusions. Just one half-mad young girl.

"I grant Bellatrix Lestrange permission to enter Hogwarts." The wards shivered, and Bellatrix pushed open the gate with a screech of metal and darted inside. Albus kept his wand ready, and extended his other hand. "Your wand, Bella." She drew it from her robes and tossed it to him. Albus snatched it out of the air and stunned her in the same moment. As she crumpled to the ground, he placed a cushioning charm under her, and rendered her mute and immobile. Albus flicked his wand again, and Severus' familiar wand whipped from Bellatrix's sleeve. Albus pocketed that as well, unsure whether it showed deceit or merely caution on Bellatrix's part.

He walked over to his former student's unconscious body, and took her in with a glance. Tom had ruined her, warped her exuberance and fierce pride into cruelty and fanaticism; twisted her, as so many had been twisted by Tom. Albus sighed, and reached down to touch her with one long finger. Headmaster and woman disappeared, back to Albus' office for what both knew came next.

*

Bella's eyes snapped open as energy rushed through her. She tried to rise to her feet, and found herself unable to move from her position on a wooden chair. She knew where she was, she had been in Dumbledore's office often during her school years. The old fool himself stared at her pensively from behind his desk; behind him stood the old tiger Moody, and the Moor, Shacklebolt. Bella frowned at the array of devices that should have been humming and whirring from the side benches; many of them were missing, and deep scratches across the empty space suggested they had not been removed gently. She raised an eyebrow at the fool, and assumed a girlish voice such as she'd adopted during her school days to weasel her way out of detention with Slughorn.

"Were you burgled, Headmaster?"

"Indeed not, Bella. But that is no concern of yours. Your thoughts should perhaps be focused on how to demonstrate the sincerity of your rather unexpected offer." Bella would have shivered if she could, at the headmaster's tone; deep and cold. Harsh. He was a trusting fool, but a powerful one. Which was what she needed.

"Words won't satisfy you, we both know that. Give me the veritaserum." Something flashed in Dumbledore's eyes, and he gestured at the Moor.

Shacklebolt extracted a small vial from his robes and came around the desk to Bella. She obediently stuck out her tongue, and the Moor carefully tipped three drops out. Bella swallowed, and immediately felt the serum take effect. Something was pressing down on her, a force pushing at her, and she knew she could no longer withhold the truth. Shacklebolt stood off to the side, and Dumbledore asked the first question.

"Why did you come to Hogwarts tonight?"

"To convince you to protect me from the Dark Lord," she said, the words not consciously chosen but drawn from her by the dreadful pressure inside her skull.

"Why?" Dumbledore's eyes were keen, and Bella knew that even without the serum a lie would not have helped her.

"Because my lord will kill me for attacking him, and you are the only force capable of standing against him."

Shacklebolt asked the next question. "You attacked your master? With what?" The serum bore down on Bella once more.

"Yes. With Revett's two-tiered withering curse, adapted to the Latvian structure and using Kemmler's oscillating focus variation."

"Did it strike him?" Shacklebolt asked curiously.

"No. He deflected it."

Dumbledore held up a hand to stop further questions, his gaze boring through Bella's skull. It was almost nostalgic, she mused. How many times had she sat in this office, denying all knowledge of a disturbance in the Slytherin common room, or a curse afflicting some brainless mudblood?

"What are your feelings regarding Sirius' death?" Dumbledore said at last, and Bella's amusement faded.

"I regret his death. I wish he had not chosen to set himself against the traditions of his family," she heard herself say.

"Do you feel any guilt?"

"No. It was Sirius' decision to betray his family and set himself against me. And he should not have stood where he did."

Dumbledore leaned forward, hands clasping the arms of his chair tightly. "Bellatrix. Did Voldemort ever mention an…object, or antique? One which he valued more than its material worth?"

"Yes," she heard herself answer, and what was one more betrayal of her Lord after so many? She remembered how proud she had been at the time; the memory was ashes now. "My Lord gave me a cup to hide within my family vault at Gringotts, and ordered me to protect the secret with my life. He also ordered that I pay for the most powerful defences for the vault. I don't know what the cup was for."

Dumbledore's eyes flared with some fleeting – satisfaction? Triumph? And then were cold again. He considered her answer for a moment, and then leaned forward in his chair.

"Bellatrix, please look into my eyes." She held his mild blue gaze. Although she was expecting it, familiar with legilimency from her Lord's endless tests, the sudden knife-sharp pain in her skull was agonising. Bella tensed her neck muscles, refusing to break eye contact. Infuriating as it was, she could not afford for Dumbledore to consider her a threat. The ache shifted and intensified, and then it was gone. Bella let out her breath at the sudden cessation of pain, noting happily that the old man was rubbing his temples. Perhaps she had given him a headache.

Dumbledore sat up straight again, and gave Moody a nod. The twisted bastard began to ask Bella pointed questions about recruitment, and numbers, and sources of funding. She let the serum pull the answers from her, focusing her conscious mind on trying to read Dumbledore's expression. Was he going to protect her? Was she useful enough? Or would he cast her off as a distraction?

Eventually the cripple ran out of questions and Bella's hoarse answers trailed off. She took slow, shallow breaths, and ran her tongue along cracked lips. There was nothing for it but to wait for Dumbledore. The old man sat behind his desk, watching Bella over steepled fingers, and she stared back. He had already rummaged through her mind tonight, so she had nothing left to hide, and he was damned if she would look away. At last Dumbledore laid his hands flat on the desk.

"Bellatrix, I am willing to shelter you as a useful resource. You will provide information as required; I am sure you can give us valuable insight into Voldemort's—" Bella could not suppress a shudder at her Lord's name, but Dumbledore paid her no attention. "—plans and likely actions. As the Ministry seems to have some difficulty keeping you in one place, you will reside at a location of our choosing. But first," here his gaze sharpened still further. "There is the matter of, shall we say, guarantees of behaviour."

A few moments later, Bella stood on her own two feet, only a little unsteady. Her hand was clasped with Dumbledore's, the contrast between her deathly pale skin and his age-spotted digits something to distract herself with. If she looked only at that, she might escape the awful reality of what she was about to do. The cripple touched the joined hands with his wand, the azure eye flicking from side to side. After a pause, Moody began to speak, delivering questions decided upon by Bella's three captors behind the veil of a silencing spell.

"Do you, Bellatrix Lestrange, forswear all loyalty and obedience to Tom Riddle, called Voldemort?"

"I do," she said, and her throat was dry with something between grief and fury as a strand of flame slid out of Moody's wand and wrapped around their joined hands.

"Will you follow the orders of Albus Dumbledore, without delay or deceit?"

"I will." Another line of fire. It stung Bella to swear her life to a new master like this, ate at her pride in a way giving her loyalty to her Lord had not. But it was necessary for survival, and she was far too proud to die.

"Do you swear not to reveal these oaths, save with the permission of Albus Dumbledore or the head of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"I do." The final twisting strand of the Vow. It was interesting that the old man was preparing for a change of leadership in his little band of troublemakers, a piece of information her Lord would prize. Bella's free hand clenched into a fist. Not that it mattered any more. The three strands of fire dancing around the clasped hands for a moment longer, then snapped tight and vanished, leaving three faint lines running across the back of hand and fingers and over Dumbledore's.

Dumbledore drew his hand back slowly, peering at it curiously. "An unusual sensation." He looked back to Bella, stern once more. "Bellatrix, here are my commands. You will not communicate with anyone outside the Order. You will not leave the safehouse in which you will be staying. You will not attack anyone, magically or physically, save in self defence, and in such a case you will use the minimum possible force. Are any of these unclear?"

"No," said Bella, aware that she sounded almost petulant but too weary to care.

"Excellent!" said Dumbledore, now once again the batty old schoolteacher that so few recognised as a mask. "Now, let me show you your accommodation. I believe it will be somewhat familiar."


	2. In The Midst of Arms

Harry Potter decided that he quite liked trains.

He'd spent the first week of the holidays wandering around Little Whinging in a daze. Because of Mad-Eye's threats, Vernon and Petunia hadn't assigned him any chores this summer – in fact, they'd spoken to him as little as possible, leaving him terse notes and shrinkwrapped food rather than speak a word to Harry's face. For the first few days Dudley had avoided Harry as well, but then stopped – instead, Dudley sometimes ate breakfast at the same time. Harry often caught his cousin staring at him with a strangely confused expression. Even more perplexing, one morning Harry had come down to find a cup of tea and buttered toast waiting for him, with Dudley nowhere to be found. Harry hadn't really thought about it; he'd given up trying to understand the Dursleys years ago.

On the second Monday in Surrey, Harry had walked away from Privet Drive, just moving without any thought of a destination. He had wandered past the train station and suddenly decided to buy a ticket, a round trip to the other side of the city. It had been peaceful, sitting and watching the city roll by. The rattle and sway of the train reminded him of the Hogwarts Express, of happy trips to school and morose trips back to the Dursleys, always spent in the company of his friends. Harry had simply sat on the train, empty of thought, until it reached the end of the line. Then he had transferred, and taken the train back. Now he took trains most days, using up the money the Dursleys left for him in the morning on tickets and meals from train station food courts.

Today was a Thursday, and Harry was sitting on the 5:28 to Surrey, watching streetlights flicker in and out of view. The train slowed, pulling into a station, and Harry watched the flow of people off and into the compartment. None of them knew, he thought dully. A war was coming, the greatest dark wizard of all time had been reborn, and none of them would know until someone in a skull mask walked in the door. Voldemort had a history of attacking the Muggle world, Remus had said – large-scale attacks that were difficult for the Ministry to cover up, draining resources from the fight against Voldemort himself. Harry could imagine Voldemort thinking that way. He ran his eyes over the crowd of Muggles, wondering what the chances were that one of them would be killed. Probably very low. There were lots of Muggles, after all, and very few Death Eaters. It would be a while before Voldemort worked his way around to Surrey.

Harry jerked his gaze away from the oblivious strangers and stared out the window at the cracked tiles on the wall of the station. He knew he was in a dark mood, the kind that Ron or Hermione usually pulled him out of, but without them he didn't know what to do. He contemplated a crack that run almost the full height of the tiles, turning one way and then the other. Harry traced it with his eyes, only vaguely aware of someone sitting next to him. His gaze reached the ceiling, and he stopped to look at the crack as a whole. It looked rather like a lightning bolt.

Or perhaps he was just being paranoid again. Harry sighed, very quietly, then jumped in his seat as someone spoke to him.

"Bad day, was it?" The speaker was a professional-looking woman dressed in a jacket and skirt. Harry had seen hundreds of them over the last week, but few of them had been wearing such a friendly smile. He blinked owlishly, and frowned.

"What makes you think that?" he said carefully, easing one hand into his jumper pocket and curling his fingers around his wand.

"Well, you sitting there like your dog died was a clue," she replied, and Harry narrowed his eyes. Was that a reference to Sirius? Was she a Death Eater? Harry couldn't imagine a Death Eater deigning to dress in Muggle clothes, but the sudden conversation seemed suspicious.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said flatly, and turned away from her, keeping her in edge of his vision. The woman huffed, and Harry felt a little embarrassed. He'd been horribly rude, but better safe than sorry. He was still tense, worked up and waiting for something to happen; but nothing did. The woman sat in stony silence all the way to Harry's stop, where they both got off. Harry kept his wand ready, watching her go, but she left the station without glancing back. Harry waited for a few minutes until the stream of people leaving the station died down, then began to walk back to Privet Drive.

Harry wandered past a series of shops, then cut through a small park: swings, bench, slide. The light from the street distorted the swing set, casting weird shadows on the summer-yellowed grass. It was strangely grim, matching Harry's mood precisely. The thought made him smile. On an impulse, Harry took a seat on the swing, and pushed off with his heels. The back and forth motion, rather like the swaying of the train, was calming. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a breath. He thought about the woman from the train. He'd been so rude, but he had honestly been afraid she was a Death Eater. He leaned his head against one of the swing's chains. So stupid. The blood protection was still working, there was no chance that Voldemort could find him.

There was a sudden _crack_, a noise Harry recognised after a moment as apparition. He froze, cheek pressed against the chain. Was it someone from the Order? Harry eased himself out of the swing seat, and moved over to the bench, as quietly as he could. He crouched behind the bench, trying to figure out where the echoing noise had come from. He sat there for what seemed a long time, listening to the faint sounds of nearby cars. Harry was just starting to wonder if it had been some other noise, a car backfiring or something, when he heard voices from across the park.

"Is it working?" The voice was male, rough with age.

"I'm trying," said a second voice, younger than the first, and female. "The damn thing gives me a location, then goes all red and shakes like it's going to break."

"Well, keep trying. The wards are probably interfering again."

"Interfering, right," the woman snarled. "It's working – oh, Merlin's beard, it's just giving me this garden, over and over." Harry tensed at the curse; these were definitely wizards, but what kind? He peered between the bench's slats, and saw two hooded shapes under a tree. Harry drew his wand and held it in trembling fingers. Where was the Order? Dumbledore had said he'd have guards this summer – if the two were Death Eaters, Harry was in trouble. And how had they found him?

"The cursed thing's useless," the woman muttered. "It didn't work yesterday, and it won't work now."

"He gave us a task," the man said calmly. "I suggest we try for more than half an hour. His temper's been chancy, ever since the raid on the Ministry; and Lestrange hasn't helped any." They were Death Eaters after all, talking about Lestrange that way. Harry stayed still behind his paltry cover. Where was the Order? They were supposed to be guarding him, although Harry hadn't noticed them yet.

"We've made, what, two dozen attempts? And every time we ended up in Muggle London. And always near, what are they, trem tracks! I think the bloody thing's broken!"

"And will you tell our Lord that?" The man said. There was a pause.

"Oh, fine," said the woman. "Let's look around. This is the first place that hasn't had great big metal things rushing past."

Damn. Harry thought his options through as the two Death Eaters lit their wands and began to circle the park. If the Order was going to help, they would have already intervened – so Harry was on his own. If he tried to run, they would hex him in the back. If he stayed still, they would probably find him eventually. His best option was to fight. Harry felt sick at the idea. He was no match for one Death Eater, let alone two. Would they be trying to capture him, or kill him? Harry couldn't decide which would be worse.

One of the Death Eaters was coming towards him, ambling between the slide and the swing set. Harry could see a little of the skull-mask, behind the harsh glare of the light charm. He took a slow, deep breath. Now was the time to attack, when he had a chance at catching one of them by surprise. His legs felt stiff, as if he'd been crouched for hours rather than a minute or two. Harry swallowed against the bad taste in his mouth, trying to remember everything he'd practiced with the D.A., and jumped to his feet in one desperate motion.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy!_" Harry threw a pair of quick stunners at the nearby Death Eater, and one of them struck, slamming the hooded figure back against the slide. Harry turned to the clump of trees where the other Death Eater was, and hastily threw up a barrier at the flash of purple light. The air shivered as a curse splintered apart against Harry's shield. The Death Eater cast something else, aimed at the bench this time. Harry saw the woods glowing with an ugly orange light, and threw himself to the ground as it exploded.

Something stung Harry's back as he hit the ground. He twisted around, the grass coold and wet against his belly, and threw a blasting hex in the general direction of the Death Eater. Hearing a muffled curse, Harry scrambled to his feet and aimed at the bobbing light of the Death Eater's wand. "_Confringo. Percutio. Percutio._" The exploding curse struck a tree with a dull _crumptt_, throwing dust and splinters around Harry's opponent. Harry had no idea if his piercing hexes had hit or not, and he threw another exploding curse into the dust. A pulse of blue light shot out of the trees in response, the edge of it catching the side of Harry's left thigh before he could shield.

Red-hot pain seared through his leg, and Harry collapsed to his knees as he threw a desperate blasting hex at the Death Eater. Harry clenched his teeth, breathing quick and shallow, and tried to stand. His thigh felt covered in fire, every nerve protesting the movement with jolts of agony. Harry fell down again with a low cry. He landed with his weight on his left forearm, and for some reason that sent a stabbing pain through his back. Harry couldn't believe it. This wasn't nearly as bad as the Cruciatus, or Voldemort's possession spell. How dare his body do this now! Shoving with his elbows, Harry managed to rise to his knees. He raised his wand, ready to block the next curse.

Nothing came. The park was silent, save for the wind in the trees.

Harry stood up, and this time kept his feet. Wand up, he walked over to the pool of light still cast by the second Death Eater's wand. The hooded figure was lying against a tree a few feet away from the wand, and looked unconscious. Harry stunned them just in case, and limped back to the first Death Eater. Their mask had come off, but Harry didn't know the blonde woman sprawled against the weathered metal slide. She was holding something. Harry lowered himself to the ground with one hand on the edge of the slide, putting his weight against the metal rather than his injured leg. He reached out with his left hand, but the stabbing pain shot across his back again and Harry had to bite back a curse.

Harry stuck his wand back in his jumper pocket and pulled the object out of the woman's grasp. It was made of metal, round and cool in his hand. Harry lit his own wand for a better look. It was a pocket watch, but when Harry popped it open, instead of hands its face showed elegant cursive writing: _Harry Potter – Larkin Park, Surrey_. Something to track him, Harry assumed. But why was it working? Shouldn't the blood wards…Harry grimaced as he tucked the watch away in his jeans pocket. The blood wards would be working, unless…weren't they bound to Aunt Petunia? Harry's eyes went wide. He had to get back to Privet Drive, had to check on the Dursleys – and get Mrs Figg to send a message to Dumbledore.

Harry went to walk out of the park, only for his leg to throb with pain again. He lowered the end of his wand to look at where the curse had hit, and winced. His jeans were charred black, burnt away from his leg in a rough half-circle four or five inches across; the exposed skin was a livid red. "_Aguamenti_," Harry murmured, and sighed in relief as water flowed from his wand and ran across his wound. It felt a little better, more of an ache than a burning pain. Not a healing spell, but good enough. He had to hurry.

"_Accio_ wands," he said before he left, and had tostick his own wand in his mouth to catch the Death Eaters' wands with his one working hand. He pocketed them as well, and began to limp out of the park, holding his left arm as still as possible against his stomach. Harry knew he wouldn't be able to get to Privet Drive like this. As much as the idea stung, he needed to hide until the Order, or maybe the Ministry, showed up. Hadn't he just violated the Restriction of Under-Age Sorcery about a dozen times? They would be here soon. Harry clung to that thought as he staggered out of the park, back past the row of shops.

After ten or twenty paces – time and distance seemed to blur for Harry – he stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a dingy public telephone stall. The rush of terrified energy was leaving him; without it, Harry felt battered. Exhausted. What was he supposed to do now, send up red sparks and wait for Dumbledore to come save him? As if that had ever worked before. God, he was tired. But he needed to get help, needed to warn the Dursleys-

Harry would have slapped himself, but it was too much effort. Holding onto the top of the telephone stall, he stepped around so he was in front of it. He belatedly canceled the light charm on his wand, and placed it on top of the decaying phone book inside the phone stall. Putting coins into the phone and dialling was a little awkward when only one arm was working, but Harry managed it. He dialed the Dursleys' number, and was surprised when Dudley answered it right away.

"Harry? Is that you?" Harry blinked at the desperation in Dudley's voice.

"Er, yeah," he replied hoarsely, a bit surprised at how rough his own voice was. "Dudley, are you alright?"

"Harry, you've got to come home," Dudley said, his voice quavering. It wasn't the fake-distress that Harry remembered from Dudley's temper tantrums, it was a voice close to tears.

"Dudley, what's happened?"

"Mum's dead, Harry," Dudley said brokenly. "She's dead. She was driving and someone hit her."

Harry took a moment to realise what Dudley was saying. He had thought Aunt Petunia had something to do with the blood wards going down, but…he had never really considered that she might be dead. It seemed wrong, somehow. Harry had fought for his life, had seen people die – but always far away from Privet Drive and the Dursleys. The idea that something as chaotic as death could intrude upon the Dursleys…it was hard to grasp.

"Dudley," Harry said, as calmy as possible. He was feeling something now: fear now that the wards were down, grief for an aunt he'd never liked, sadness that he wasn't more sorry for her death. But he knew that this wasn't the time for emotion. Sirius had taught him that. "Is Vernon there?"

"No," said Dudley, and he sniffed. Harry realised with a start that Dudley was _crying_. "He's at the hospital, they needed him to identify Mum."

"Dudley, I'm sorry Petunia's dead." And he was, or a part of him was. "But you're in danger. You've got to get out of the house. Go to Mrs Figg, tell her to get Dumbledore and the Order, and to tell them that the wards are down."

"What?" Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

"There was magic protecting me – us. It's broken now that Petunia's dead. They're going to come for you. Dudley, you've _got to get to Mrs Figg_."

"Is it Vuh, Voldermart?"

"Yes. Please, get to Mrs Figg. Tell her to get Dumbledore. Tell her that the wards are down. _Don't go back to Privet Drive!_" Harry said urgently, then had to stop to take a few deep breaths.

"Okay." Dudley's voice was a little stronger now. "I'll tell her." There was an uncertain pause. "Are you all right?"

Harry leaned against the side of the stall, wincing as the movement made his back flare with pain once more. What had happened to it? He couldn't remember being hit by a curse there.

"'m fine. Tell Mrs Figg. I'm going now." He hung up, and looked up and down the quiet line of shopfronts. He couldn't walk far, so he'd have to hide. Looking across the street at a line of houses, he saw that one had a nice garden with a tall, neatly-trimmed hedge. There were no lights on in the house. Picking up his wand from the phone book, Harry limped across the street and fumbled the wrought-iron gate open. Setting his right shoulder against the hedge, he slid downwards and to the right, keeping his left leg straight. His thigh was still throbbing with every motion he made, and the occasional searing pain across his back seemed to have spread. Harry faced the gate and kept his wand in hand. He wouldn't be able to stop any Death Eaters that turned up, but he would at least fight.

He would go down fighting. Like Sirius. Perhaps he would see him again. Harry could barely keep his eyes open now. The gate seemed impossibly far away. Time was passing, there were car noises somewhere close by (or was that very distant? Harry couldn't remember how he judged the distance of sound) but he wasn't part of that world, so it didn't matter. Was that how it worked? Aunt Petunia wasn't magic, so she died by car, but Harry was a wizard so he died by curse. That would make a weird kind of sense, he supposed.

There was a loud _crack_ somewhere very far away, which Harry knew because it was so loud and clear. He knew he should raise his wand, because someone (Ron? Hermione? Hagrid?) would be coming in the gate soon. Harry tried to lift his right arm, but it was very heavy. Perhaps he should use a charm to make it lighter. Oh, but he'd need to move his wrist for that. Were all problems this circular, Harry thought muzzily?

The gate creaked. Something tall moved into the garden, outlined against the yellow glow of the streetlights. Harry squinted at it. A Dementor? The figure leaned down towards Harry.

"Harry!" it said urgently. "How badly are you injured?" The voice seemed somehow familiar, but Harry couldn't place it until the streetlight glinted off the side of the figure's golden spectacles.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said cheerfully. "You're here." And he fell into a lovely whirl of pitch-black colour that seemed very like sleep.


	3. The Times, The Morals

Harry felt like he was floating, rising and falling on the surface of some massive current. It was almost like riding a broom. Something fluttered at his eyelids.

"G'way," he moaned, and pawed at his face.

"Harry?" said an anxious voice. It sounded familiar.

"Remus?" said Harry, opening his eyes very slightly. Remus was leaning over Harry, his unshaven face very close. Harry turned his face away. "You have bad breath," he muttered. He blinked. "Remus? What are you doing at the Dursleys?"

"You're not at the Dursleys, Harry," Remus said quietly. "You're at Hogwarts."

Now that Harry thought about it, it did smell like the Hogwarts hospital wing: starch, blood, the sharp scent of Pomfrey's nasty medicines. "Why'm I—"

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, felt a burst of pain across his back and slumped back down. "The Dursleys," he said through clenched teeth. "Aunt Petunia. Are they all right?"

"Your uncle and cousin are fine," said Remus. "Your aunt…" He hesitated.

Harry sighed. "Dudley said she was dead. Was it…was it really a car accident?"

Remus gave him a long look, rubbed a hand over his chin. He looked tired. "We don't know. Dumbledore is looking into it, we've got your relatives at an Order safehouse for now."

"Oh, they must be loving that," said Harry, trying to squirm upright.

Remus put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Don't sit up. You had a nasty cut across your back; it hasn't finished healing."

Harry lay still, but Remus didn't remove his hand. Harry tried not to shrug it off. "Does—" Harry grimaced, swallowed against his dry throat. "Does Dumbledore know what happened? How they found me?"

Remus removed his hand and stood up. "I don't know, Harry. Dumbledore will tell you when he returns, I'm sure."

"Great." Harry swallowed again. "Can I have some water?"

"Of course." Remus padded away, and returned a moment later with a glass. Harry couldn't raise his left arm more than a few degrees; Remus had to help him drink.

"I feel like an idiot," he said as Remus put the empty glass on the bedside table.

"You're alive, Harry. That's all that matters." Remus' voice was warm and very distant.

"Got hurt…stupid…" Harry murmured as his eyes slid closed.

"I'll talk to you again later, Harry. Get some sleep."

When Harry woke again, Remus was slumped in a chair beside the bed, head cradled in one hand. He started when Harry moved, and smiled.

"Harry. Feeling any better?" At Harry's nod, Remus smiled tightly. "Good. Dumbledore asked me to fetch him when you woke; do you want anything first?"

"No," Harry rasped, then reconsidered. "More water, please." Remus poured him a glass, then left the room. Harry moved his left shoulder very slightly, and felt a twinge across his shoulder blade. His leg didn't hurt at all. "I love magic," he said out loud, and snorted. "I love Madam Pomfrey."

"A sentiment you might keep to yourself, Harry," said a strong voice from beyond Harry's view. "Poppy has a husband, and I fear he would fight most vigorously to keep her hand."

"Good to know, sir," said Harry. Trust Dumbledore to jump to the least important topic first. "Is he a good dueler?"

"Ferocious," said Dumbledore, walking into Harry's field of vision. Dumbledore was resplendent in royal purple robes with white and gold stars, his hands folded in front of him. He was tall, serene and reassuring as always. Harry remembered a certain scene in Dumbledore's office, and felt a twinge of guilt; with the anger faded, Dumbledore seemed again a figure of hope and relief – bent, but not broken. "He works in construction, I believe," Dumbledore went on. "It is best not to trifle with such men."

"I'll remember that," Harry said. "Professor, the Dursleys. Are they coping? …You didn't put them in a magical house, did you?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "They are spending the night in a thoroughly non-magical apartment, far away from Surrey." His expression softened. "Harry…I am so terribly sorry about your aunt."

Harry didn't think it was wise to say he didn't feel very sad about it. "Was it really a car accident, like Dudley said? It seemed too…even _my_ luck isn't that bad." He raised his eyebrows at Dumbledore, who sat down in the chair Remus had vacated and steepled his fingers before replying.

"You are right, Harry. The timing is suspicious. But I have examined the car that…struck your aunt, and its driver. Neither bear any traces of magic, only large amounts of alcohol."

"It doesn't seem like something Voldemort would do," Harry said pensively. "Using a Muggle to get things done, I mean," he clarified.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore. "I cannot imagine Tom planning such an attack; it would be an admission of failure. And none of his followers would have the knowledge required."

"They didn't know it was going to happen," Harry said, suddenly remembering something the Death Eaters had said. "The two that came after me in the park, they didn't know the wards were going to go down. I think Voldemort had them using that watch all the time, in case…I don't know."

Dumbledore played with the end of his beard for a moment. "Yes, the tracking device. Most ingenious. Tom was always clever when it came to getting around obstacles." He was silent for a moment, and Harry had the impression Dumbledore was looking through him at something else. He was about to ask if something was wrong when Dumbledore started talking again. "When he resurrected himself using your blood, he took it within himself. The device contained a drop of Tom's blood, and used the link between your blood and his to trace you. The tracing spell could not penetrate the full wards, but when your aunt passed on she weakened the wards to the point of failure."

"But the wards didn't go down," said Harry. "They kept complaining about how the watch wasn't working all the time."

"The wards were anchored to your mother's blood, and as such there was still a foundation for them," said Dumbledore. "Not enough of one, apparently."

"What…Dudley." Harry said, interrupting his own question.

"Yes, your cousin," said Dumbledore. "He was quite concerned for you; he almost came here to see you."

"Dudley was concerned?" That was a surreal thought. Harry smirked at a sudden thought. "How was Uncle Vernon?" he asked innocently. He could imagine how Vernon had felt, being spirited away by a wizard.

"Still too shocked to grieve," Dumbledore said gravely, which wiped the smirk off Harry's face. "I sent him to sleep for a time; it will help him heal." Dumbledore hesitated before speaking again. "You do not seem yourself, Harry. I have never seen you be heartless, or uncaring, before."

Harry opened his mouth to tell Dumbledore how little the Dursleys had cared, but closed it again. That wasn't the problem. "I can't feel everything all the time," he said eventually.

"I sympathise, Harry. But I have always been impressed by your ability to care about others, regardless of their circumstances. Be careful not to let it slip away."

Harry sighed. The pain of Sirius' death had faded to a dull ache, but it didn't seem to be going away. "What if I want it gone?"

"That is your choice, Harry. It has always been your choice; do not allow anything to make it for you." Dumbledore touched Harry's shoulder with one pale hand. "We will talk more later. For now, your body needs sleep – a great deal of it."

Harry caught Dumbledore's sleeve as he turned to go. "Professor. The Death Eaters, what happened to them?"

Dumbledore looked at Harry, and for the first time that day Harry saw the faded blue eyes twinkle. "They are in the Ministry's custody. They were still unconscious when I came across them; the Aurors were rather impressed. Sleep well, Harry."

As Dumbledore left, Harry wondered whether he really had a choice. Why did he care about the Death Eaters? They would have killed or tortured him. Stupid to care about them. Harry closed his eyes again.

*

"Take it slowly, Harry. Your back is still healing; you don't want to strain a muscle now."

"I'll be careful, Remus," Harry said impatiently, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "But two days in bed, it's enough. It didn't take this long to regrow all the bones in my arm." Harry stood up and stretched, feeling a tightness across his shoulder blade where the piece of metal had cut him.

"Anything hurting?" asked Remus.

"Nope," Harry replied. It didn't exactly _hurt_, it was just a little more tense than normal.

"Excellent!" said Dumbledore brightly, striding into the hospital wing wearing a robe with purple and yellow checks. "It is good to hear you have made a full recovery, Harry. But I must remind, you should inform us if you experience any lingering pain at all in the next few weeks." Harry met Dumbledore's knowing blue eyes, and cleared his throat.

"Of course, sir."

"Very good. Remus, I think your diligence in caring for Harry may have induced some fatigue. Hmm?" Remus looked away and ran a hand through his greying hair. He looked tired at the best of times, and now Harry could see deep rings under Remus' eyes. Dumbledore went on. "Perhaps you should get some rest. I find myself at a loose end at the moment, with Minerva badgering me out of my administrative duties, so I shall escort Harry to his safe house."

"I really would prefer to—" Remus began, but Dumbledore cut him off.

"Remus. You do none of us any good by falling asleep on duty." Dumbledore's tone softened. "Go home and get some sleep. Perhaps visit Miss Tonks."

Remus stood quietly for a moment, clapped Harry on the shoulder, and trotted out of the hospital wing. Harry watched him go, then turned to Dumbledore.

"Him and Tonks?"

"Gossip is a dangerous thing, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I shall say no more on the topic of Remus's budding relationship with Miss Tonks."

"Good idea, sir," Harry said, still smiling. Remus and Tonks? That was…good. Surprising, but it was nice to know that Remus had someone.

"Indeed." Dumbledore indicated the door with one hand. "We will be taking the Floo from my office. And there are some matters that I must explain along the way. I am sorry to tell you, Harry, that you will not find what I have to say pleasant."

Harry sighed, and started walking. "That's not really surprising, Professor."

Dumbledore matched Harry's steps, bowing his head. "Yes. You and I have rarely converse save in times of trouble and crisis." He ran a hand through his silvery beard. "An entirely lamentable trend, my dear boy."

Harry swallowed hard, remembering their last conversation – when he had destroyed half of Dumbledore's office. "You said you had matters to explain," Harry put in, trying to push the conversation away from things he didn't want to remember.

"Yes, of course." Dumbledore shot Harry a piercing glance over half-moon spectacles, then returned his attention to the corridor ahead.

Headmaster and student rounded the corner, and went up a flight of stairs only to stop as the landing vanished abruptly. Dumbledore peered down the two-storey drop to the next landing, and shook his head.

"How long will it be gone, do you think?" Dumbledore asked Harry, still peering downwards.

"Two minutes," Harry replied, having fallen here more times than he cared to remember. There was a Cushioning Charm on the landing below, probably added to prevent student fatalities. "It activates if there's an even number of people on the staircase. Professor, are you going to talk to me or just change the subject all day?"

Dumbledore took in a slow, deep breath. "You have caught me out, Harry. I was attempting to distract myself, in order to avoid this subject. Ah, well. You recall Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry?"

Harry felt the rage rush through his body, curling his hands into fists and making his pulse pound against the inside of his skull. "I remember her," he growled. "How could I forget, sir?"

"Did the Death Eaters you incapacitated make any mention of her, Harry?" Dumbledore continued.

"I…yeah," Harry said, frowning. "They said something about her and Voldemort, that she'd made him angry." He thought over what he'd heard. "Well, they just said 'Lestrange'. It could be her husband."

"I think that unlikely," Dumbledore murmured. The landing reappeared, and Dumbledore began to climb again, Harry matching his pace. "At the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix failed her master, and Tom is not a forgiving man. He attempted to execute her, as an example to his followers."

"He what? But…she loved him, she went to Azkaban for him." Harry stopped walking suddenly, and Dumbledore wheeled around to face him. "_Attempted_ to execute her?"

"Indeed. She escaped, and…" Dumbledore sighed. "Harry, Tom is returned to the height of his power. He has had more than a year to consolidate his power and gather his followers, while the Ministry has done nothing. Even now, terror and disbelief slow their response."

"You did everything you could, sir," said Harry. "You can't make people see the truth."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore agreed, with a faint smile. "But a war is coming, and at this point I am desperate for any further advantage, any weapon – even one that cuts both ways."

"Sir, what do you—" Harry trailed off. Lestrange had escaped Voldemort, but there was no way she could hide for long. Voldemort had almost got at Harry through blood wards, Lestrange wouldn't have had a chance. She would have needed protection. Harry shook his head. "You didn't, sir, you – she's evil!"

"I have no illusions about Bellatrix's moral compass, Harry. But she has already provided valuable information, and may give us more. It has nothing to do with right and wrong; it is a matter of utility." Dumbledore's expression was regretful but resolved. Harry had heard this tone of voice before, when Dumbledore had sat behind his desk and told Harry that Sirius' death was not Harry's fault, but Dumbledore's.

"Fine, you hid her from Voldemort. And I guess you can't put her back in Azkaban. Good. Can we go to the safehouse now? Where am I staying?" Harry went to continue down the corridor, but Dumbledore touched him on the arm.

"Yes, Professor? What is it?" Harry said through clenched teeth. He could feel angry flush across his face, but he didn't care.

"There were further problems of…practicality, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. "There were only two places that could shelter Bellatrix. One of them was Hogwarts; I am sure you understand why I did not invite her to stay here, even without students in the halls."

"Where did you put her?" Harry asked sharply. He thought he had an idea already, but surely…

"Aside from Hogwarts' layers of wards, the Fidelius Charm was the only sure way to keep Bellatrix from Tom's grasp--"

"You ler her stay at – you put her in Sirius' place?" Harry asked in a harsh whisper. He couldn't believe it.

"Not only that, Harry," said Dumbledore. "With the blood wards weakened, and Tom likely creating another tracking device, you are in the need of the same protection."

"I'll stay here, then," Harry said firmly. "I'm not a mad, murdering bitch. I'm not a threat to Hogwarts."

Dumbledore sighed. "I am sorry, Harry. But you cannot remain here."

"But you won't tell me why, right?" Harry said, fuming. Dumbledore was doing the same thing he'd done last year.

"On the contrary, Harry," Dumbledore said gravely. "I will explain myself fully. You are aware of the role Severus performs for the Order.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled. "He's our barely competent spy."

"He maintains a dangerous deception, Harry; one on which his life depends. My fear is that if you were to reside here until the beginning of term, Tom would task Severus with abducting you. When he failed, Tom would immediately suspect Severus' loyalty – and we would lose one of our few advantages."

"What makes you so sure he'd fail?" Harry said sourly.

Dumbledore ignored that. "The only remaining option is Grimmauld Place. I have informed Bellatrix you are coming, and that she is not to disturb you. Her oath to me renders her incapacle of attacking you."

"It'll be the other way around," Harry snarled.

"Precisely," said Dumbledore. "Harry, I need your word that you will not assault Bellatrix. I will not ask any more of you than that; but I need Bellatrix as a source of information."

"You trust her to tell you the truth?"

"She has sworn the Unbreakable Vow to obey me, Harry; she cannot lie if I do not allow her to. And no, I do not trust her. But she is useful, and will remain so for some time." Harry thought for a moment, still and quiet. Dumbledore waited for him to speak.

"All right," Harry agreed. "But…she'll get what she deserves eventually, right?"

"I believe in forgiveness, Harry," said Dumbledore, eyes cold. "But I also believe in justice. When it is possible, Bellatrix will face punishment for her crimes."

"Good." Harry nodded. "Good."

"Shall we, Harry?" Dumbledore began to walk again, and Harry followed him.

Harry, Dumbledore, Pomfrey and McGonagall are the only people in the castle. That's why Dumbledore had that whole conversation in the hallways. Also: please review! Criticism makes better writers.


	4. Not A Denial

Yes, sorry this took so long. I have a number of one-shots for other fandoms almost done, and…well…I re-installed Age of Wonders, which ate a couple of weeks of spare time. Bad Brownish, bad. Next update should take less than three months.

*

Dumbledore tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire burning in his office's fireplace, said "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!" in his dry tenor, and vanished in a puff of green flame. Harry took a handful of powder from the pot Dumbledore had showed him, and stared into the fire for a moment. He threw the powder in, stepped over the edge of the fireplace, and called out his destination. The usual terrifying whirl of colour and sensation, and then he was stepping out from the hearth in Number Twelve's living room. Dumbledore was to the right, standing in the corridor and frowning in the direction of the stairs. Harry could hear someone clattering down the stairs, the only noise in the house.

"Dumbledore!" A female voice called, and Harry trembled in remembered anger. His hands curled into fists. "Dumbledore," Bellatrix said again, from the sound of it standing at the end of the corridor. "That poisonous little elf refuses to cook anything other than mushroom soup! Tell it to—"

"Be silent, Bella," Dumbledore said. "Come into the parlour." Dumbledore stepped back through the doorway and stood next to Harry, although Harry wasn't sure which person Dumbledore was guarding. Bellatrix swept into the parlour indignantly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, who was glaring at her. He had promised Dumbledore, he told himself. But seeing her here, in Sirius's house…she was mocking Sirius. He ached to pull out his wand. Bellatrix opened her mouth, but could not make a sound. She glared at Dumbledore murderously, and made a show of gesturing at Harry, then around at the house, and then at herself.

"The protections around Harry's residence have failed," Dumbledore said briskly. "He will be staying here until the beginning of the Hogwarts term. You are not to assault him, physically or magically."

Bellatrix scowled, waved at herself, and gestured at Harry pointedly.

"Harry has given me his word that he will not harm you," Dumbledore said. "Though I would caution you not to test him. I trust Harry's sense of responsibility, but he is only human." Dumbledore turned to Harry, put a hand on his shoulder. "Your things are in the first bedroom on the second floor. If you grow weary of schoolwork, there is a fairly comprehensive library on the third floor. I believe Remus has removed all the cursed tomes." Dumbledore leaned in a little closer to Harry, and lowered his voice. "I am truly sorry to put you in this position, Harry."

"I'll survive, Professor," Harry said, as calmly as he could. Bellatrix was glancing between Harry and Dumbledore with interest.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore breathed. "There is more than one kind of danger. But you have always risen to the task at hand," he went on, sounding distant and faintly sad.

"Professor?" Harry said. "Are you all right?"

"Merely absorbed in my own follies, Harry," Dumbledore said. He glanced at Bellatrix. "Sirius's will deeded this property to Harry. If you have any concerns regarding house-elf management, you should address them to him." Dumbledore strode to the hearth and reached for Floo powder, but Bellatrix thumped the wall and gestured to her mouth. "Ah. You may speak, Bellatrix," Dumbledore said. A moment later, he vanished in a whirl of green flame. Harry and Bellatrix stared at each other for a long moment. Keeping his face blank, Harry walked past her to the corridor. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Bellatrix was smirking, watching him carefully. He resisted the urge to wipe the amusement off her face, and went on up the corridor.

The next morning, Harry was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when someone knocked at his door. It took him a moment to remember that there was only one other person in the house, and he felt the flush of anger again. Well, perhaps it was Dumbledore, checking that Bellatrix hadn't killed him, or vice versa.

"Come in," he called. The door was flung open, and Bellatrix leaned against the doorframe. She was bone-pale, with striking features, and she reminded him vividly of Sirius, when Harry had first met him that night in the Shrieking Shack. Perhaps it was the slightly threadbare robes, or the air of arrogant madness.

"Speak to the elf, Potter," she said sharply. "Unless you want to eat boiled fungus for the rest of your incarceration."

"Go away," Harry said, trying for calmness but sounding choked instead. Bellatrix snorted.

"Gladly. Just as soon as you give the horrible thing its orders."

"Go away," Harry repeated, rolling over to face away from Bellatrix. It made his back itch, but Dumbledore had assured him that Bellatrix would not be able to attack him. "Or I'll tell Kreacher to serve you dog food."

"Why did you ask me in, then?" Bellatrix snarled.

"Thought you were Dumbledore," Harry mumbled, then shook his head. He didn't have to explain himself to this hag. He rolled over again to face her, and picked up his wand from the bedside table. "Bugger off, Lestrange," he said, using the straightforward vulgarity to centre himself. He hated her, and didn't owe her a thing, he reminded himself.

"It's Black," she said stiffly. "Failure to come to the defence of your spouse negates the marriage."

"Oh, you had a falling out with your husband," Harry said lightly. "Pity, that. You had so much in common. Both mad, both murderers, both pieces of trash who shouldn't have a wand--" Bellatrix bared her teeth and reached for her wand, and Harry hit her with a blasting hex on reflex.

She was tossed backwards out of the doorway and slammed against the wall. Harry felt a fierce satisfaction, replaced quickly by guilt. The Ministry might not be able to detect underage magic through a Fidelius, but he had promised Dumbledore he wouldn't harm Bellatrix. She probably wasn't going to be a useful source for the Order if she was concussed all the time. He watched her push herself to her feet.

"Angry, Potter?" she drawled, wand at the ready. "Whatever did I do to you?" Harry growled. How dare she – he was only vaguely aware of getting to his feet, preoccupied with pouring his rage into another blasting hex. Bellatrix flicked her wand in a spiral, and a swirling blue shield appeared, fracturing and absorbing Harry's hex. Bellatrix made as if to cast, but instead her entire body went rigid for a moment. "Blasted old fool," she growled. "Does hurting those who can't fight back make you feel good, Potter? Powerful?" Harry threw out another hex, which Bellatrix knocked away with a flash of silver light. The deflected hex struck something out in the corridor with a loud _whoom_.

"Get out of my sight," he said tightly.

"Or you'll curse me, I suppose," Bellatrix said, and sighed. Harry tossed an exploding curse at her feet, but she flicked her wand in a strange triangular motion and the curse fell apart before striking the floor. "I can't attack you, Potter, but you can't best me." She tapped her chin with one elegant finger, in mockery of thought. "I suppose you could try an Unforgivable…but Dumbledore's golden boy is far too pure to touch _dark magic_." Her voice was filled with a delighted amusement.

Harry opened his mouth to shout at her, then thought better of it. He had used the Cruciatus, after all. He shook his head. He couldn't maintain his anger at Bellatrix. She might have killed Sirius, but it was Harry who had led him there. Deciding that the Ministry and their rules could go hang, he used a charm to close and lock his door. After a moment there was a series of thumps, and Harry added a silencing charm. He lay down on the bed, and tried to think of nothing at all.

Harry left his room in the early afternoon, unable to ignore his growling stomach any longer. He went down the stairs quietly, hoping to find some food without having to deal with Bellatrix again. As he turned into the kitchen, he bit back a curse. Bellatrix was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to him, staring at something in front of her. Harry considered coming back later, tapped the pocket where his wand sat and shook his head. He owned this house, after all, and Bellatrix couldn't do anything to hurt him. Probably. He walked past Bellatrix as casually as he could, and pulled the icebox lid up. It made a _thump_ as it banged against the wall, and Bellatrix jumped in her seat. Harry glanced over his shoulder at her, and bit his lip to avoid smiling.

"Merlin's teeth, Potter," she snarled. She was breathing heavily, and Harry was pretty sure that the ferocity was a cover for her surprise. "You can't even walk like a proper wizard." Harry grimaced, and turned back to look in the icebox. It was empty. "There's no food, Potter," Bellatrix said. "As I tried to tell you. The elf won't make anything but mushroom soup, and it throws the leftovers away after every meal."

"Sorry you're not enjoying the food," Harry said absently, closing the icebox and twisting around to lean against it. "Pity it's not up to the high standard set by the Hotel Azkaban."

"My pain is your pain, Potter." Bellatrix bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. "This time."

Harry shifted his weight at the reminder. Sirius dead, Bellatrix gasping in momentary pain on the Atrium floor, and then Voldemort's arrival…he twitched his head to drive the memories away.

"Kreacher!" Harry snapped. The house elf appeared in front of Harry with a _pop_, spindly arms hanging by his side as he stared sullenly at the floor.

"Halfblood brat calls Kreacher," the elf muttered. "But Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't! Kreacher won't…" he trailed off into mumbled imprecations. Harry blinked down at the elf, not quite sure what to do. Kreacher had helped the Death Eaters on the night that Sirius had died, but…he looked so pathetic and worn down. Like Dobby, when Harry had first met him.

"Give him orders, Potter!" Bellatrix said impatiently. "To make ome decent food, for a start."

"Shut up, Lestrange," Harry said absently, still frowning downwards at Kreacher.

"_Black_," she hissed.

"Kreacher," Harry began sternly, then stopped to think. "Make some decent food for meals, will you? And keep the icebox stocked."

"That's not an order, Potter," Bellatrix said. "Make it explicit."

"Fine," he snapped, and glanced at her. "You, shut up." He turned back to Kreacher. "Make the food that people ask you for, and make it to the best of your ability. Don't throw the leftovers away." He paused. "Don't communicate with anyone except me or Dumbledore, and don't leave the house unless it's to follow an order."

"Oh, well thought out, Potter," Bellatrix said lazily. "Not banking the fire after the ashwinder's hatched, not at all." Harry's hands clenched into fists; he forced them to uncurl, and took a deep breath.

"Kreacher, please make me a corned beef sandwich," Harry said steadily. Still muttering under his breath, Kreacher shuffled over to the bench and snapped his fingers. A slab of meat, a loaf of bread, and a knife appeared in his wizened hands. Harry assumed that Kreacher had summoned them from storage – house elves couldn't just make food out of thin air. As far as he knew.

"Nicely done, Potter. You _can_ control a deranged old house-elf. Sirius would be so—"

"Shut up!" Harry said. He took a step towards Bellatrix, wavered on the edge of taking another. "Don't say his name!"

"You knew him for a year or two, Potter," Bellatrix said in a low, ragged voice. "I grew up with Sirius, and I will speak of him as I like."

"You killed him!" Harry said. "Your own cousin."

"And I regret it. But this is war, Potter."

"That's how you justify it? What you did to Sirius, to the Longbottoms? It's war?" Harry stared at Bellatrix, sitting at the table, pale and composed. "That's bollocks. This war is bollocks, you're nothing but a twisted bitch who gets off on hurting people." Harry was vaguely aware that he was shouting now, but he was tense with rage, sick with grief, and volume seemed unimportant.

"Of course you don't understand what we're fighting for," Bellatrix said. "You've been brought up in a squalid Muggle hovel, with no idea of your bloodline or your duty to your family."

"I don't have a family," Harry said, his voice quiet again.

"They chose the wrong side," Bellatrix said stiffly.

"And what about you?" Harry said bitterly. "You act like Voldemort—"

"_Do not say that name!"_

"—_Voldemort_," Harry said again, more loudly. "Is still on your side! He threw you out! You had to run to Dumbledore. You sold your bloody cause out the minute "

"He will pay," Bellatrix said through clenched teeth. "He'll see that he was wrong to cast me away." She shook her head, tangled black locks shifting. "My…the Dark Lord is a treacherous fool, and I'll see him dead one way or another. But once I've had my revenge, my work begins again."

"Your work," Harry said slowly. He snorted. "Of course. Killing and torturing people because they've got the wrong parents—"

"Purifying—"

"No! Just because someone's born to magical parents doesn't make them better or worse, and even if it did that isn't grounds to kill people."

"Our society has stood for thousands of years," Bellatrix said. "And they care nothing for it. More of them, every year…we're fighting a war to defend ourselves, Potter."

"You think your society is better than Muggle society? You think _you're_ better?"

"Of course I am," she said impatiently. "And so are you. Admit it. You're a breed apart from any fumbling mudblood."

"Well if you're so superior," Harry said, looking Bellatrix in the eyes, "why are you hiding under the Fidelius charm right now? Why did you spend thirteen years in Azkaban for a man who tossed you away like…" Harry groped for a suitable simile. "Like a house-elf."

Harry had been half-expecting Bellatrix to try and curse him again, and had ben confident that the Unbreakable Vow would stop her. Instead, she threw herself at him across the kitchen, hands curled into fists and a mad gleam in her eyes. A moment before she hit him, her whole body shuddered and tensed. When her muscles relaxed, Bellatrix fell to her knees on the floor.

"Shades take you, Dumbledore," she gasped. Harry crouched down so they were on the same eye level.

"And why," he said, "if Dumbledore is as weak and foolish as you Death Eaters – sorry, ex-Death Eaters – keep saying, did you swear to obey him like this?" He would have said more, the words pressing against his throat like acid, but Bellatrix burrowed her hand into his pocket and yanked his wand out. Harry made an inarticulate noise.

As Bellatrix jumped to her feet and turned to run, Harry grabbed her shoulder and pulled. She whirled and tried to lash out with an elbow, but her body shivered with tension again. Growling like a cat, she tried to pull out of Harry's hold. He held onto her shoulder tighter, grabbed her wand hand with his right hand and dug his thumb into the hollow of her wrist. She dropped the wand with a yelp, and suddenly threw her whole weight away from Harry. Unbalanced by the sudden movement, Harry staggered backwards and fell against the kitchen bench. He was vaguely aware of Kreacher making incoherent noises, and something touching his arm.

Bellatrix drew her own wand and cast something. Harry pushed off the bench and dived for his wand, but it skittered away from his fingers. She had enchanted it. Bellatrix backed towards the corridor, but Harry managed to pin his wand between his hands. Holding it between his palms, Harry raised his wand and cast a blasting hex at Bellatrix with all the rage he could muster. Her hasty shield wasn't enough to protect her, and the hex sent her sailing through the doorway to hit the wall in the corridor. Cancelling the enchantment on his wand and getting to his feet, Harry reflected that it was the second time he'd thrown her into a wall today.

He held his wand ready for a moment, but didn't hear any movement. He stepped through the doorway, and looked down at Bellatrix sprawled unconscious on the floor. With her eyes closed, her arrogance muted, she looked…peaceful. And tired. Something fell onto her face, and Harry realised that he was bleeding.

"Master has injured himself," a croaky voice said from behind Harry. He turned to face Kreacher, and frowned at the cut along his forearm. During the – it hadn't been a fight – during the scuffle, he hadn't noticed the cut, but now it was starting to throb.

"Yeah," Harry said dully. "I did." He glanced at Kreacher, at Bellatrix, and back to his cut.

*

Just so everyone's clear, Bellatrix is not going to be a sympathetic character. But I wanted to make it clear that she does believe in something beyond Riddle, even if she thought Riddle was the embodiment of those beliefs.


	5. The Cardinal Method With Faults

Harry prodded Bellatrix with his foot as Kreacher pressed a pad of folded-over linen bandage against Harry's right forearm. Harry had cleaned the blood away, but he didn't know any healing spells. Bellatrix made a small noise, and shifted against the floor. She was alive. Harry sighed, then winced as Kreacher wrapped the tail of the bandage around Harry's arm to hold the pad down.

"Thanks, Kreacher," Harry said absently, then remembered who he was talking to. "Tidy the kitchen and make me another sandwich," he said sharply. Kreacher scurried back to the bench, and Harry frowned down at Bellatrix. Information, he reminded himself. She was useful, and Dumbledore would see her punished when she stopped being useful. But for now…Harry sighed again, and shook his head. "Kreacher," he said, not looking away from Bellatrix. "Do you know anything about the library here?"

*

"_A Warlock's Primer Upon Anatomie_," Harry read from the spine of the book Kreacher had brought him. "This looks like it was written in the twelfth century." He opened the book, and scanned the cramped, blocky handwriting at the top of the title page. "Sorry, fifteenth. This really has healing charms in it?" He flicked forward a few pages, and stopped to stare at a carefully drawn diagram of a man being ripped in half on a rack. "Bloody hell."

"Master Regulus learnt many things from this book," Kreacher said, twisting his long, crooked fingers together. "Oh yes, many things."

"Right," Harry said, leafing through the book again. "Is there an index, or…ah. The passages and motions of blood. Curses, hexes…how do I _stop_ it flowing…" He leaned in close to the page; the author's cramped cursive was almost unreadable in places. Harry glanced at Bellatrix again, and walked away to the kitchen table. He put the book down, and used his left hand to hold his wand against the cut on his forearm. "_Tela._" Harry felt an odd stretching sensation in his forearm, and removed the pad to see that the cut had clotted and looked well on its way to being healed. "Just like magic," Harry said to himself. He tapped the cut again, and added the anti-infection spell from the book. "_Cruosignus_."

He glanced at Bellatrix, still crumpled against the wall in the corridor. She'd hit her head pretty hard; she probably had a concussion, maybe even brain damage. Harry smiled slightly, then shook his head. Dumbledore. The war. Information. The book seemed to be organised by systems of the body, and Harry flipped past the circulatory and lymphatic to get to the nervous system. There was a diagram of a brain, several pages about the 'many and varied energies of the mind', and then a section about actual magic. Harry picked out a diagnosis charm, and cast it at Bellatrix. Her head glowed blue with a trace of green – nothing but a sore head. Wonderful. He took a sandwich on a plate from Kreacher, put it on top of the closed book, and carried both of them upstairs to his room, stepping over Bellatrix on the way.

*

The next morning, Harry went down to the kitchen to get breakfast. Bellatrix was sitting at the table, eating an omelette. Kreacher lurked in the corner.

"How's your head, Lestrange?" Harry said as he sat down opposite her. She narrowed her eyes, and her hand twitched towards her pocket. Harry knew that she wanted to curse him, and that she knew it was pointless trying. He smiled brightly, then looked at Kreacher. "Kreacher. A glass of orange juice, two fried eggs, and some bacon, please." Kreacher made Harry breakfast in a sullen silence, and hovered the plate over to land with a loud _thunk_. Harry picked up his fork, and noticed Kreacher watching him. Harry frowned. "Kreacher, did you poison this?"

"No," Kreacher muttered, and after a pause added "Master." Harry stared at the house-elf in surprise; Kreacher stared at his feet, and disappeared with a _pop_. Disconcerted, Harry returned his attention to his breakfast and caught Bellatrix looking at him again.

Harry knew what murderous rage looked like – he had seen it, and felt it. Bellatrix didn't look like she wanted to kill him. In fact, it was something like the way Snape looked at one of Harry's potions, and sometimes Harry himself: both calculating and disappointed, as if Harry was an essay covered in red-inked corrections.

"What?" he said reflexively.

"I'm trying to understand why _you_ were prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord," Bellatrix said. "I mean, look at you."

Harry ate a forkful of bacon, and tried not to feel insulted. A small part of him whispered that Bellatrix was right, that he didn't have a chance against Voldemort. He pushed that voice away. "The prophecy didn't choose me," he said, thinking out loud. "Voldemort did."

"The Dark Lord!" Bellatrix said fiercely.

"What do you care what I call him?" Harry said, matching her tone. "He's not your Lord any more."

Bellatrix waved a hand. "Call him what you like. Your idiocy is no concern of mine." There was silence for a little while, Harry working through his breakfast as Bellatrix stared at the table. Then Bellatrix spoke again. "What do you mean, he chose you?"

The prophecy, he had hinted at part of the prophecy. Harry opened his mouth to change the subject, distract Bellatrix by bringing up her husband again – and stopped himself. Bellatrix was imprisoned by the Unbreakable Vow, literally incapable of disobeying Dumbledore. She was probably the only person not actually in the Order that Harry knew wouldn't tell anyone else.

"He chose me," Harry said. "That's what was in the rest of the prophecy. It said he would 'mark me as his equal', and he did. It was me or Neville, and he chose me."

"Longbottom," Bellatrix murmured. She smiled, as if she was remembering a particularly good joke. "Or Potter. The incompetent or the half-blood." She looked Harry in the eyes. "That was all? That was the prophecy he has spent a year seeking?"

"That's it," Harry lied, not meeting her eyes but not looking away.

"Then why would the old fool…round-the-clock guards for a scrap of prophecy already fulfilled!" Bellatrix frowned at the table. "No. Dumbledore might move in circles, but never aimlessly. Ah. It draws us into the open," she looked at Harry, "forces the Dark Lord to reveal his return, negates all that wonderful publicity you were getting, Potter. Dumbledore is transformed from senile old Headmaster to the _de facto_ leader of the nation; and you, Potter, you become a misunderstood hero rather than a pathetic glory hound." Her eyes gleamed with amusement, and Harry was again reminded of Sirius, strong and proud and wild.

Harry's throat felt strange. He swallowed to get rid of the sensation. "I'll be sure to write Voldemort a thank-you note."

Bellatrix twitched, but did not correct him. "Prophecy! What a useless thing." She drew her wand, and Harry went for his, but she merely raised an eyebrow and hovered her plate over to the kitchen bench. "Who taught you to duel, Potter?"

"Voldemort, mostly," he said, and sure enough she twitched again. He held back a smile.

"Whoever it is," she went on, "they're useless, based on your performance last night. Or you are an exceptionally dull student. Perhaps both."

"And which of us spent the night unconscious on the floor?" Harry said, this time not holding the smile.

"I am geas-bound not to attack you, Potter," Bellatrix said. "You," she pointed her wand at him for emphasis, "have no such restriction, and had Dumbledore not had the _foresight_," she spat the word, "to include physical harm in his prohibition, I would have killed you three times over yesterday."

Harry would have disagreed, but it was true. "So?" he said.

"So, according to prophecy, you are the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord, and at present you would have difficulty defeating a grilled haddock in a duel." Bellatrix shifted in her seat. "As long as…he…remains a power, I must cling to Dumbledore for survival. As you pointed out last night," she added bitterly.

"How terrible for you," Harry said.

"Indeed," Bellatrix said, and smiled – or rather, bared her teeth. "So _I_ will have to teach you."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I don't intend to moulder away here, waiting for Dumbledore to decide I'm no longer of use. If I want a future, I need the Dark Lord dead. Unfortunately, I'm not the subject of the prophecy – you are."

"I – you –" Harry took a deep breath. "I don't want _anything_ from you." He took a deep breath. "You're an evil, murdering bitch who wants to kill all my friends."

"But it's nothing _personal_, Potter," Bellatrix said, pouting. Harry glared at her, and she laughed in his face, for a moment sounding as carefree as a child. "Really, Potter," she said, "you're not going to kill the Dark Lord with stunners and schoolboy jinxes."

"And I suppose you'd love to teach me some Dark magic," Harry said.

Bellatrix smiled. "I could teach you many things."

"Out of honest selflessness, I suppose."

"Merlin's teeth, Potter, try for a little wit. Push through that Gryffindor bravado and think. I need the Dark Lord dead, and I am unable to kill him; you want him dead, yet your skill is vastly inadequate to the task."

"Oh, yes," Harry said brightly. "A few days of lessons from the ex-Death Eater, and I'll be ready to kill Voldemort in an open duel, I'm sure."

"He would tear you to shreds," Bellatrix said. "But, with some training, the element of surprise…if he's ill…or concussed…you may have a small chance." She shrugged carelessly. "If nothing else, it will give me a source of amusement."

Harry sat back in his chair. "You're serious."

"Deadly serious, even," Bellatrix said, running one long finger up and down her wand. Harry stood up and walked out of the kitchen, leaving his breakfast half-eaten. "Think about it!" Bellatrix called after him. He didn't have to. Harry had been humiliated so many times – in the graveyard with Voldemort, in the Ministry with the Death Eaters. He had been helpless so many times, scraping by on luck and quick reflexes. Much as he hated the idea of learning from Bellatrix, he already knew what his answer was going to be.

*

"Now, class," Bellatrix said sternly from the front of the empty storage room. "Pay attention. There will be a practical exam later on."

Harry folded his arms. "If this is just going to be you laughing at me…"

"Very well." Bellatrix twirled her wand between two fingers. "What do you already know? Malfoy said something about you running a little defence club at school." Harry hesitated. "Oh, come on Potter, I'm on your side now."

Harry glared at her. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," she agreed, and waited.

"Just the basics," Harry said. "Disarming, stunning, blasting hex, exploding curse, basic shields, the Patronus charm."

"Oh, I've underestimated you. A haddock would be in serious danger, should it face you on the battlefield."

Harry ground his teeth. If she didn't start actually teaching him, he would just walk away. But before he did…"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Professor Lestrange."

"Black!" Bellatrix snarled, her stern expression vanishing as she dropped into a dueling stance. "The name is Black."

"Sirius's name was Black," Harry said. "You don't get to take his name!"

"He gave up the right to that name when he betrayed us."

"And you gave up yours when you killed him!" Harry shouted. He realised he had raised his wand, and lowered it. He'd had enough of blasting Bellatrix into walls; it wasn't making him feel any better. "You killed him for nothing. For a man who threw you away. And nothing you can say is going to make me forget that."

"He was my family too, Potter," Bellatrix said, so quiet that he almost didn't hear her.

"I can see how much that mattered to you," Harry said bitterly.

"You don't understand."

"Understand family? No, I guess I don't. I wonder why that could be." They both fell silent.

"Starting with counter-curses, then," Bellatrix said, breaking the silence. "Cancellation charms will work on most curses, but they take more time and concentration than I think you'll have in a real fight."

"You're going to teach me all the counter-curses?" Harry asked, still angry but slightly interested despite himself.

"And then I'll name all the stars in the sky. Of course not, Potter. Just the curses that we – that Death Eaters like to use." She smiled. "Mostly the painful, debilitating ones. This is the blood-boiling curse." She flicked her wand at the wall, and a tendril of dark red light shot out and left a scorch mark on the wall. "The counter-curse is _Norcurvare_, emphasis on the first and third syllables. The motion is a downward chop…"


	6. The Greatest of Virtues

Albus Dumbledore was not, by nature, a kind or good-hearted person. His skill with magic and brilliant mind had only exacerbated what he knew was a heavy load of natural arrogance, and as a result he had always been inclined towards viewing those with less power as objects to be arranged rather than people. Much of the kindness and empathy Albus felt was deliberately cultivated, a learned response rather than an instinctual one; he had always been impressed by – even a little envious of – Harry's easy empathy, his concern even for those he did not know.

Nevertheless, Albus was still greatly relieved when he returned to Grimmauld Place after a week and found Bella still alive.

Not only alive, but sitting at the kitchen table and speaking with Harry in as amiable a tone as Albus had heard Bella use since she had left school: one step short of mockery, warmed by the implicit threat of violence.

"Yes, there are stronger shields," she said, sounding irritated, and went on about the weaknesses of static shielding. She was facing away from the door and did not see Albus standing behind her. He glanced around the room, saw a sink full of dishes washing themselves under Kreacher's direction, saw Harry listening to Bella and carefully not looking at Albus, saw that Bella was wearing an old-fashioned gown that had been resewn for her figure and somewhat daring fashion sense. And because Albus had spent almost as many years practicing being insightful as he had being foolish, he saw that Harry had asserted some degree of traditional control over Kreacher and had put aside his emotions enough to learn duelling from Bella.

"Black," said Harry after a minute, flicking a glance at Albus.

"I know he is there, Potter," said Bella. "I heard the Floo, and there is only one person with access to this mouldering dump arrogant enough to just stand there." She turned around to face Albus as Harry processed her remark. "Come to check on Harry's homework, Professor? I'd give him an Exceeds Expectations for Defence, but I suppose he gets that just for being alive."

"I am, of course, partly here to see how the two of you were getting along," said Albus, keeping his tone even. "But mostly I am here to speak to Harry. In private."

"Why?" Bella narrowed her eyes. "I have as great an interest in this war as Potter."

"No. You don't," said Harry, not angry or mocking but only weary. Albus saw the impact of Harry's tone on Bella, the calculation in her eyes, the fear of ignorance. Voldemort must have enjoyed having such a transparent servant, her every emotion visible even without legilimency.

"Very well," Bella said after a moment, and she marched out of the kitchen. Harry watched her go, then looked to Albus.

"Evening, Professor," he said amiably. "Would you like a cup of tea? A biscuit? Kreacher's specialty is gingernuts. Apparently Sirius's great-grandfather liked to celebrate killing someone in a duel with a glass of brandy and a gingernut."

"Tea and a gingernut, please Harry," Albus said cordially, sitting at the end of the table rather than taking Bella's seat. He drew his wand and warded the kitchen, slicing through the expected eavesdropping charm from Bella. Kreacher moved to a cabinet and extracted an elaborate tea service of pale china. There was a painted scene on the side of the teapot: a single wizard fighting a group of short, brutish figures that were most likely meant to be muggles. Kreacher made and poured tea and set out gingernuts for Harry and Albus, then looked to Harry, who frowned back before speaking.

"Go polish the silver," said Harry. Kreacher bowed and disappeared, Harry still frowning at where he had stood before reaching for a biscuit. Albus added milk to his tea, blew on it, took a sip, set it down, opened his mouth to make a comment about the design on the teapot and realised that he was stalling.

"Harry," he said, pushing through his instinctive reluctance to reveal secrets. "Have you ever wondered how Voldemort survived his first defeat at your hands?"

Harry paused mid-nibble and set down his biscuit. "Not really." He didn't look curious, only resigned. Albus could have wept, but now was not the time for regrets.

"There is a thing," he said carefully, "called a Horcrux..."

- \ * / -

Harry fiddled with a gingernut. A lot of things made more sense now. A handsome young man who had been trapped in a diary. A snake that Harry dreamed himself into. Splitting your soul through murder...Harry remembered Cedric dying, so casual, _kill the spare_, over in an instant. As if it was nothing. And of course it wasn't, not for Voldemort. Harry broke his biscuit in half. Making Horcruxes out of artifacts from Hogwarts history, that made sense too – it was something Harry could image Voldemort doing. Harry had met a piece of Voldemort that called itself Tom Riddle, and that boy had been obsessed with proving himself. And of course he would do it with things from Hogwarts, the school was the first home he had ever had, the first place he had ever belonged, and it was so much more real than any other place...Harry wasn't sure whether he was talking about himself or about Voldemort.

Harry realised that he had crushed his biscuit into crumbs. He wiped his hands on his pants, suddenly wanting to smash the sick teapot that he'd thought was funny when Kreacher had first brought it out.

"So they're things from Hogwarts history, in places important to him," he said at last, brushing crumbs from his lap to avoid meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "But he would have hidden them."

"What can be done by magic can be undone," said Dumbledore, taking a sip of tea before going on, "a fact that Voldemort never grasped, or perhaps never allowed himself to believe. In any case, I believe I have already located two of them. One is in young Bella's Gringotts vault, unavailable to us without a great deal of preparation. The second is much more accessible. It is in the shack where Tom's mother's family once lived; or rather, he has placed some incredibly complex wards upon that site and I cannot imagine another reason to do so."

"You're going to destroy it." Harry leaned forward on his stool, crumbs forgotten. "When?"

"Tonight," said Dumbledore casually. His eyes were cold.

"Can I – no, I can't." Harry bit his lip. "If I go, he'll track me there. Dammit." He thumped his fist against his thigh. "Who are you taking?" Dumbledore took another sip of tea and Harry raised his eyebrows. "Sir, you have to take someone with you."

"I cannot," said Dumbledore, and set down his tea cup at last. "Harry, the only advantage we have is that Tom does not know that we know his secret. Every person I tell increases the chance that he will discover that his horcruxes have been compromised."

"Then why are you telling me?" Harry shot back.

"Because ignorance is the greater risk for you. Because Tom appears to suffer great pain when he enters your mind. Because you are safe here, and others are not." Dumbledore took a breath, let it out, looking less than serene for the first time. "I am sorry, Harry. I should not lecture you so. But who could I ask? It is not a question of trust." He looked old and worn, and Harry remembered that Dumbledore was over a hundred years old.

"Sir..." Harry trailed off. He wanted to say _you need to take someone_, but just repeating it wasn't going to work. He tried to pull something more rational from his misgivings. "The first horcrux, the diary...it pulled at me. I don't know if that was magic or the bit of soul or just Voldemort being persuasive, but it talked to me and I listened. It was worse for Ginny. She had it longer and it almost took her over. But it didn't work as much on me because I had Hermione and Ron." Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Harry shook his head and kept talking. "I know you're a great wizard, but it's not about that. I needed someone to tell me I wasn't myself, because I was never going to notice on my own."

Dumbledore looked at Harry for a long moment, then stared down into his teacup.

"I had not considered that," he said softly, almost a murmur. "I am prepared for wards and curses, but you are right. I have always found it difficult to watch myself. But we return to the same problem, Harry. Who could I ask to accompany me, knowing the risk?" They sat together in silence for a moment, and then Harry sat bolt upright as an idea flashed through his mind.

"Professor," said Harry, "you can take Black."

Dumbledore blinked, ran a hand through his beard. "That is...a very good idea, Harry. Hmm. I think I shall do that. Do you have any questions before I go?"

Harry tilted his head. Dumbledore sounded like he was about to go out for a stroll, rather than destroy an incredibly dangerous – ah. "How are you going to destroy it?"

"Well, once you return to school I had hoped you would guide me into the Chamber of Secrets to retrieve some basilisk venom," said Dumbledore, "but tonight I shall use fiendfyre. A tad dangerous, but with Bella's assistance I believe all shall be well."

"She's...good at magic. I'm learning duelling from her," Harry said defensively.

"There are few more skilled than her," said Dumbledore. "Top of her year on her Defence and Charms NEWTs." He sounded regretful, and Harry wondered what Bella had been like when Dumbledore taught her.

"The duelling's not really working because she can't attack me, even just to practice. I know it sounds-"

"Harry," Dumbledore cut in. "If you desire it, I will alter my instructions to Bella. I ask only that you be mindful."

"Mindful of what?"

"Just mindful in general," Dumbledore said airily as he stood up, and Harry had to smile. "Now, I will speak to Bella and then we shall be off. With luck, we shall return with an empty horcrux and no major injuries."

"Professor," said Harry, standing up as well. He bit his lip. "He really was dangerous, the him in the diary." Dumbledore inclined his head, almost a bow, and left the kitchen. Harry took a gulp of his cooling tea. It was difficult, imagining someone besides himelf in direct danger from Voldemort.

- \ * / -

Bella had not seriously expected to listen in on the conversation, but the ease with which Dumbledore had severed her charm was annoying. The only thing worse than a meddling old fool was a meddling old fool who made it look easy. She waited in the corridor a minute and tried the charm again. It slid off the ward, making as much impact as rain on a bonfire. Bella whirled around and stomped up the stairs. Potter and the old fool wouldn't hear through the ward, but it made her feel better.

Feeling caged, she picked a room at random to explore. It was a sitting room. She could vaguely remember it from her childhood, torturous family events spent doing nothing interesting. The only good thing in the room was the family tree tapestry on the far wall. When Father or Uncle had had a few brandies, they would tell stories about Bella's ancestors. Bella stood before the tapestry and reached up to touch the name of her favourite ancestress, _Dibella Gatria Black, _who had killed a man for kissing her hand without permission. Bella traced the line down from Dibella to her own mother, and then to her own name...and next to it, Narcissa's.

"Oh, Cissy," she said under her breath. She hadn't given her sister a single thought when she fled, but of course her Lord would punish Bella's family. She scraped a fingernail over Cissy's name and ignored the regret that began to rise up inside her. There was no room for regret in her heart, not since Azkaban.

Her gaze slid to the scorch mark between her name and Cissy's, and she drove the regret away with anger, more than a decade old but still fresh and hot. Suddenly the tapestry was mocking her, reminding her of the Black family's broken present rather than their glorious past.

"You traitor," she growled, "why did you – worthless!" Bella drew her wand and conjured fire along the tapestry. It was charmed fireproof, of course. She laughed, shrieked, went to use an incineration curse that drew from her hatred. Every muscle in her body went tense and her mind rang like a gong as she slammed into the limit of her Vow.

"You bastard, Dumbledore," she gasped, stumbling to an armchair. She took a deep breath and laughed. "I can't use the Dark, but Potter can. So very you."

Dumbledore found her in the library an hour later. She snapped _Lives of the Warlocks_ shut, raised an eyebrow.

"Have you finished discussing strategy with a schoolboy? I can wait, I'm sure the elf has some useful tips on complex transfiguration for you."

"I imagine he does, but I would be at a loss to implement them," Dumbledore said gravely. Bella rolled her eyes. "Now, Bella. You will accompany me on my errand this evening. You will contact no one, you will do your best to keep the both of us healthy and undetected, and you will not reveal what we do to anyone without my explicit permision. "

"You're letting me out?" Bella frowned, hating the excitement in her voice. "I mean, what errand?"

"We will destroy an artifact that Voldemort holds dear..." Dumbledore noticed her twitch, but unlike Potter he didn't enjoy it. "It will require the use of Fiendfyre."

"No Dark magic, Bella," she said in her best schoolteacher voice.

"In the future, I hope to have less unpredictable tools available," he went on, ignoring her gibe. "Shall we go?"

Potter was waiting in the front hall, hands stuffed in his pockets. Bella blew him a kiss as Dumbledore led her out the door.

"Jealous, Potter? I'll bring you back a souvenir from the outside."

"See that you do," he said, not looking away. Before Bella could reply, Dumbledore took her arm and they Apparated, landing in a country lane. Bella pushed Dumbledore's arm away, fighting down a surge of nausea.

"Some warning, professor!" Bella hissed. She tilted her head. "Why am I whispering?"

"Because some small part of you remembers that my orders included stealth," said Dumbledore. "That shack to your right holds what we seek."

"Ugh." Bella wrinkled her nose. "Are you sure he would hide something of his _here?_"

"Quite sure." Dumbledore – and a reluctant Bella – walked to the shack's front door. It was run-down and dirty, clearly abandoned for years. Both of them drew their wands, Bella looking around while Dumbledore drew intricate patterns in the air with his wand. "It is safe to enter."

"Why not just fill it with Fiendfyre?" Bella suggested.

"Terribly unsubtle. I am hoping to replace the object with a copy, and leave your former master unaware that it has been destroyed. Let us proceed."

Dumbledore led the way into the shack. Bella kept a few paces back from him, wrinkling her nose at the mouldy walls and rotting timbers. Dumbledore spread his arms wide and half-closed his eyes.

"Fascinating," he murmured. "Ah, Tom. Not all of us are like you..."

"There's nothing here," said Bella. She didn't like the grubby little shack. It felt steeped in misery and wretchedness. It reminded her of Azkaban.

"But there is," said Dumbledore. He flicked his wand, and suddenly the shack's walls were on fire. Bella started and raised her wand - "No," said Dumbledore, and his command forced her wand down even as the flames spread across the floor. They left a corridor of untouched floor leading to the door, but gave off neither heat nor smoke as they began to dance over Bella and Dumbledore's feet.

"An illusion?" said Bella tightly.

"At the moment," said Dumbledore. "I imagine that if we had used magic, or moved for the door, it would not be so harmless. A test of nerve."

"You might have warned me," said Bella. "You would have warned Potter."

"Yes, of course. Harry is not compelled to obey me; he might have taken harm. Ah." He waded further into the flames, and bent over. "A trap-door; not literally, I believe. A hand, Bella?."

"How, exactly, could I refuse?" she muttered to herself as she walked closer.

Two pairs of hands curled around the heavy iron ring set into the trapdoor, and slowly heaved it up and over to lie flat against the floor with a solid _whomp_, at which the flames now filling the shack went out. The square hole in the floor was pitch black; Bella thought about calling light, but it seemed a risk. Dumbledore crouched down and waved a hand through the darkness, but there was no ladder or staircase.

"Only one thing to be done," Dumbledore said lightly, and he slid his feet into the hole and let himself fall. After a moment there was a _thump_.

Bella stared after him. Her survival hung on the fool's well being for now, but she couldn't help picturing a broken neck, spine...ankle at the very least. Then his voice floated up to her out of the dark, still mild and unconcerned.

"Quite soft down here," said Dumbledore. "Come down."

She did, rolling into the landing and ending up sprawled on what felt like thick moss. She pushed herself to her knees, cursing Dumbledore's warped sense of humour and the Dark Lord's choice of defences. "May I call light now?" she said, doing her best to ignore the humiliation of _asking_.

"Yes, but nothing more," said Dumbledore.

"How reassuring." Bella summoned a ball of pearly light and set it to hover over Dumbledore's head, in case anything attacked the source of light. The two of them stood in a perfectly round room, perhaps fifteen feet across. It seemed to have been carved out of the dirt, the walls held solid by magic. In the centre was a small stone plinth. On it sat a gold ring set with a black stone.

"What is it?" said Bella, glancing from the ring to Dumbledore. He said nothing. "You're not even going to tell me what I'm about to destroy?"

"It has never seemed particularly important to you in the past," said Dumbledore, but without his usual serene condescension. His voice was distant, and he did not look away from the ring gleaming in the centre of the room.

Now that Bella looked at it closely, she could see the attraction. The gold band's stark, arrogant simplicity would look fetching against her pale skin, and the stone...it was jet black, the colour of night and other Darknesses, the perfect thing for the last Black. Bella felt suddenly certain that she could see them again if she only put on the ring. Sirius would forgive her, admit that he had been wrong. Her parents would tell her...why did she want to see her parents? She had no interest in what they had to say. Her thoughts were foggy, confused. That was wrong. Even in Azkaban her mind had been clear – drowning in a well of misery, but clear. Something was wrong.

Bella blinked, looked up from the ring. She was closer to the plinth than before, and on the other side of it Dumbledore stood closer still, his free hand floating above the ring. Tears were running down his face and turning his beard a darker shade of pale.

"Dumbledore," said Bella, for a moment too stunned to think. She had seen him stern, angry, mocking, resigned, but never – never grieving. His hand drifted a little closer to the ring. The ring. The Dark Lord's ring. Of course it was cursed. "Dumbledore," she said again, circling around the plinth with her eyes averted. "Don't touch it!" She raised her wand, but the idiot's offhand instruction to do no more than call light still gripped her. "Serve you right if I – ah!" She lunged forward and caught Dumbledore's wrist with his fingers an inch from the ring.

He strained against her grip, but didn't command her to let go or turn her bones to lead with his wand. Obviously not in his right mind. Bella was more than his physical match; she yanked his arm up, and shoved him away from the plinth.

"You're bespelled, you senile old bastard!" she shouted in his face, rather enjoying it. He stared back at her helplessly. His eyes were open and guileless as a child's, set in a much-lined face that had lost its relentless energy. For the first time in Bella's memory Dumbledore looked his age.

"She's waiting for me," he said quietly. "She forgives me." Bella recognised his tone. Azkaban's corridors were full of it, and when she reached her breaking point it had filled her cell as well. It was the voice of someone who could not find the strength to scream any more. Someone who was no longer trying to ease or erase their pain, but instead hold it tight, remember who they were.

"Dumbledore," she said again frantically. "This is the Dark Lord's doing! Remember that!"

"She's waiting for me," he said again. "They're all waiting for me. It's going to be all right."

"Argh!" Bella plucked Dumbledore's wand from his hand and pushed him further back, to the wall, ignoring his weak struggles. Bella couldn't think how to reach him. What would bring a man like Dumbledore back to himself? "Professor Dumbledore," she said reluctantly. "Headmaster!"

"She's waiting for me."

"I don't care!" Bella slapped him across the face with the back of her wand hand, but it didn't stop his eerie chant. "It's the ring! The thing we came to destroy, which you refused to discuss!" She glared at him. "And wasn't _that_ a good idea?" She sighed, leaned a little closer so her breath stirred stray hairs from Dumbledore's beard. "Remember the Dark Lord. Remember...oh, Merlin." Bella looked around the room, shook her head at her own idiocy. The Dark Lord wasn't lurking in this room, and if any wards were active she wouldn't see them. She went on tiptoe to whisper into Dumbledore's ear. "Remember _Voldemort_."

"Voldemort?" he echoed, breaking his chant. He frowned down at her, confusion creeping into his hollow gaze.

"Yes, V-Voldemort," Bella said. She frowned at her stutter, said it again. "Voldemort. Remember him?" The name of an enemy had done something, but not roused his mind to action. She needed something else. "And your teenaged saviour, Harry Potter. That madman Moody. Shacklebolt. The mangy werewolf Lupin. Do you remember them?"

"I remember," he said, and there was something other than hopelessness in his voice. "I remember...there is more..." He fell silent for a long moment and Bella held her breath. "There is more for me to do," he finished.

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, blinked. His gaze sharpened. He drew back from Bella, glancing from his wand in her hand to her face and back.

"Ah," he said, more exhalation than exclamation. "Thank you, Bella. I had not..." Another period of silence, Bella still trembling with adrenaline and Dumbledore recovering. "Give me back my wand," he said at last. Bella handed it over before the Vow forced her, and Dumbledore nodded. "Now. Fiendfyre. I will summon and direct it, while you keep it contained. If it escapes our control, hover me out the trapdoor and I will summon you to me."

"Can you do this?" Bell said sceptically. "This thing just got inside your head and made you cry."

Dumbledore touched his cheek, blinked at the salty dampness he found there. "I am prepared now. You were lucky, Bella. Ignorance is strength in this case."

"I don't believe that," she said sharply. "You have more dead people to see than I do, that's all."

"Hm." Dumbledore did not respond to that. "Move to the other side of the stand."

Bella and Dumbledore stood facing each other, the plinth between them. She kept half an eye on Dumbledore, but either the enchantment was inactive now or he was better prepared this time. He flicked his wand in a triangle and slashed a line through it, saying nothing; unlike most of the powerful Dark spells Fiendfyre could be summoned without an incantation. Controlling it once it arrived was another matter.

A bead of white flame appeared just over the plinth, so bright Bella couldn't look directly at it. She kept her wand and her will ready. The white light exploded out into a whirl of orange-red fire that tore at the air, snapping and retreating in a blur of claws, fangs and beaks. Bella concentrated and focused her will, curling the cursed fire in on itself until it was about the size of a Quaffle. It crackled sullenly. Bella saw Dumbledore's wand move out of the corner of her eye, and the ball of Fiendfyre lowered to the plinth to envelop the ring.

There was a sound, a shriek that started low and swept into the upper registers, piercing and inhuman; Bella had tortured, and been tortured, and she had never heard the like. A dark mist rose from the plinth, and was consumed by the Fiendfyre.

"Put it out," said Dumbledore, and he and Bella bore down on the fire. As if it sensed its dismissal approaching, it roared up in a sheet of orange light that almost reached the trapdoor. There were faces in the flame. Wolves snarled, eagles glared, semi-human faces mouthed curses. Bella tried to clear her mind and eradicate the desire to destroy, but she _wanted_ to destroy. No. She needed Dumbledore. She pictured him alive, testifying on her behalf, Potter too; the boy was saying how useful she'd been – not, not useful, essential. She saw herself walking out into sunlight, hugging Cissy, kissing Andy on the cheek-

"Well done, Bella," said Dumbledore. He sounded exhausted, which made Bella feel a little better about her sweaty face and pounding headache. "Harry was right. I could not have managed alone..." He ran a hand over his face.

Bella frowned at the plinth. The stone was scorched and part-melted, but the ring with its dark stone was unharmed. Dumbledore didn't seem worried, so it was that dark mist that they had come to destroy rather than the ring itself.

"Is it safe to touch?" she asked.

"You may keep it," Dumbledore said with an odd little smile. As Bella picked up the ring, he bent over and scraped a handful of dirt from the floor of the room. Poking it with his wand, he murmured an incantation and was holding a copy of the ring. He repaired and cleaned the plinth, then set the false ring on top in exactly the same orientation as the original.

"Why does...he...value this so much?" said Bella, peering down at the ring in her hand. "This looks like a pebble, and a cracked pebble at that."

"It belonged to his grandfather," said Dumbledore. He was still breathing heavily, and stood a little hunched over, seeming to welcome the rest before they left.

"But why destroy it?" said Bella, even as she gave the ring a little smile. It belonged to a real Slytherin again, not a false and faithless Lord. "What do you care about his heirlooms?"

"Voldemort draws strength from certain objects, in a way I do not care to explain," said Dumbledore. "This ring is one. The cup in your vault is another." He took a slow breath and stood a little straighter. "You will not mention these objects to anyone, save on my order. Now, shall we go?" As if they were visiting a famous wizard's grave, or touring a castle. Bella shook her head, and slid the ring onto her middle finger.

"Now you belong to a proper pureblood," she murmured to it.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure it is glad to hear it. Now let us depart."

Out in the lane, Bella ran her eyes over the mouldering shack one last time.

"Why here?" she said, not quite expecting an answer.

"It was where his mother's family lived," said Dumbledore. "He could not escape his legacy, so he mastered it." There was disgust and regret in his voice. "Enough memories." He took Bella's arm and with a sickening twist of reality they were back in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place.

- \ * / -

Harry was sitting on the kitchen table watching the tea service dry itself under Kreacher's direction. The familiar _krak_ of apparition echoed from the hall, and Harry stood up and went out, hoping that Dumbledore – and Black, he supposed – was all right. Both of them were tired and sweaty, but Bella gave Harry her savage smile and held out her left hand to display a new ring.

"A souvenir, Potter. Suits my colouring, doesn't it?"

"It's very Black," said Harry. The ring actually did suit her. "Is it safe, sir?"

"One down, Harry," said Dumbledore with a smile. "We succeeded, and now the ring is...no more than you make of it, I suppose. I must return to Hogwarts. Ah." He smiled at Harry and turned to Bella. "You may use magic directed against Harry, but only for the purpose of teaching him to defend himself. You may not use anything that causes permanent damage."

"Such trust, professor," said Bella.

"I trust that you understand my expectations of you." He nodded to Harry, then strode past him into the living room and vanished in the crackle of the Floo.

"Have a brandy, Black," said Harry. "You look horrible." And he went up to bed.

- \ * \ * \ -

A/N: Wait as long as you want, but you won't get one, one update, ah ah ah!

There is a reason Dumbledore didn't use Gryffindor's sword.


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